


Memento

by sootandshadow



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Devil Trigger Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Frot, Incest, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sibling Incest, Under-negotiated Kink, so many feelings, thigh fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 08:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sootandshadow/pseuds/sootandshadow
Summary: Dante turns to reach for the Devil Sword Sparda, only to find the way forward is suddenly blocked. Something hard and metallic hooks into the meat of his shoulder, a heavy bar pressing against his chest, stopping his movement if only out of sheer novelty. Dante feels his jaw clench so tightly he swears he can hear his teeth creaking as he follows what turns out to be the line of V’s cane back down to its wielder. He knows how he looks when he feels like this, when dark desires stir hotly in his blood and darker thoughts swirl dangerously in his head. He knows, too, that the look he fixes V is nothing short of murderous, because V is interferingyet againin Dante’s business with his family.Yet V does not so much as step back, instead putting even firmer pressure on Dante’s chest as though this measly chunk of steel is going to stop Dante from going anywhere.Dante opens his mouth to make some sort of snide comment, but V beats him to the punch.“You are ill-equipped to fight him as you are, and you cannot afford another mistake. Calm down and centre yourself. Somehow, I do not think Urizen will toss your body down here to recuperate a second time.”





	Memento

**Author's Note:**

> Note, this fic takes place after Counterfeit, but you do not have to read it to understand this one.

Cradled in the arms of the Qliphoth, Dante dreams. 

He dreams of his childhood, of the meadows near his house, of tussling with his brother until they were both covered in dirt and blood, of the way his mother would laugh and shake her head when they showed up for dinner looking like they’d been dragged backward through a rosebush. She never seemed genuinely upset when they came back filthy though, always helping them wash their hands and faces with a gentle but firm touch. Whenever he thinks back on these moments Dante wishes he hadn’t squirmed so much, hadn’t rushed to be done with the cleaning and eagerly batted her hands away so he could race Vergil to the table. As a boy he hadn’t known that his mother’s affection was a precious commodity; he had taken her for granted, as children were wont to do, and now he pays the price. 

But he doesn’t think of such things here. Like this, bathing in warm feelings and tender memories, he simply drifts. His whole body feels light and almost weightless, time slowing to an endless crawl. In this place, in this dream of the home he’d once believed kept him safe from all harm, he floats from memory to memory, reacquainting himself with the softness of his mother’s touch; the kindness in her eyes; the way his normally oh-so-quiet brother became so animated when he explained the things he loved; the sound of Vergil’s breathless, hiccuping laughter whenever Dante managed to tickle his funny bone. 

The way it felt to be unconditionally and unquestionably loved. 

But as the scenes play out before him, slow and syrupy and just as sweet, something itches at the back of his mind, so deeply buried that he can’t quite manage to scratch it no matter how hard he tries. Whenever he gets close to it though, Dante cannot help but feel like there is something he should be doing, something more important than allowing himself the luxury of resting here. It’s something big, too — something that a part of him insists is too big to ignore. 

It’s hard to bring himself to care, though; not when dream-him sits on the countertop and helps his mother prepare cookies, his brother on her other side dutifully reading out a recipe she must know by heart. She still lets him do it, just like she lets Dante sit beside her even though it means she has significantly less counter space to work with. 

“Put more chocolate chips in,” Dante says, his tiny voice stage-whisper loud despite the fact that he’s clearly trying to keep this request a secret. Vergil, of course, is not about to let Dante get away with such a thing. 

“That’s not what the recipe says,” his brother protests, and even though Dante can’t see his face he knows that Vergil has the beginnings of a scowl. Dante almost leans around their mother to make a face at him, but Eva’s hand on his thigh stops him in his tracks, the touch effectively redirecting his attention to the measuring cup she has in her hand. 

“I don’t see why we can’t change the recipe to suit our needs.” There’s an almost mischievous glint in her eyes as she leans over and changes the recipe with a pen, much to Vergil’s shock (and probably a bit of horror, given how much his brother dislikes altering the written word). Their mother doesn’t even bat an eye as she holds out the bag of chocolate chips for Dante to scoop, though her voice is gentle when she speaks to her eldest son, 

“I want to make the best cookies for all of us to enjoy. Don’t you?” 

Dante is too focused on tossing the chocolate into the batter to notice Vergil’s response, but his mother’s soft, pleased hum tells him all he needs to know. (Vergil always wants to please her; Dante would tease him for it if he wasn’t exactly the same.) He takes the opportunity to add a few more handfuls while they’re both distracted. 

“Then let’s live a little dangerously,” their mother continues, before she seems to notice Dante’s mischief and takes the chocolate away from him before the batter is entirely full of the stuff. Still, she gives him a knowing wink, and Dante leans forward to flash his brother a cheeky smile around her body. He is rewarded with a put-upon huff, even though he can see the way Vergil is badly concealing his own delight. His brother loves chocolate more than Dante does, after all. 

Wanting to stay involved with the baking process keeps him from poking at Vergil any further — their mother will revoke his countertop privileges if he’s too mean — and as Dante stirs the batter as best as his little eight-year-old self can, he can’t help but bask in the bone-deep peace that settles over him. It’s nice here, safe and warm like a blanket wrapped around all of Dante’s loneliest parts. Surely whatever it is that keeps trying to get his attention can wait. Dante wants to stay in this place just a little longer… 

At least, that’s what he thinks, until the kitchen around him starts to burn. 

The scene changes so abruptly that it nearly gives him whiplash, black spots dancing in front of his eyes as he blinks to try and clear them. One minute he’s grinning at his mother, the next he’s looking up at her and watching her familiar face force itself into the ghost of a comforting smile. It’s wrong, so very wrong, but everything about this picture is wrong. Dante’s instincts scream danger as flames lick at the wood of the walls and the floor, but his body is paralyzed by fear, unable to do anything but lie helpless as his mother drags him to his hiding place. 

Though she promises she’ll return, his mother can’t seem to bring herself to leave him, lingering between the half-closed doors of the closet, and Dante struggles to find the strength to sit up and reach for her. She leans in when he gets to his knees, gently touches his face, tells him to be strong, to move on, to forget, and Dante agrees without even really understanding the ramifications of her final request. All of that hardly seems to matter, not when she’s given her word that she’ll come back, that her absence will only be temporary. 

(He hadn’t known this would be the last time he’d see her, that this image of her, brave despite her terror, would be tattooed into the very recesses of his mind. Dante prefers the photograph of her he managed to salvage from the wreckage of their house. In that one, at least, she does not look like she knows she’s about to die.) 

Dante watches his mother leave through the slats of the closet, hears her voice calling, louder, frantic, and he fights down the urge to do the same, tiny arms wrapped around himself when they should be wrapped around her, around his brother. He used to make such a fuss about hugging Vergil; now he would give anything to have his brother there with him. But he was told to stay and hide, and he will, he can do what he’s told, he’s a good kid and he—

Dante presses himself against the back of the closet and waits, shivering despite the way the flames lick at the warded door, hotter than anything he’s felt before. For all the lingering aches of fresh injuries still attempting to heal, it is his mother’s absence that hurts him the most. Every second alone is almost unbearably painful, cloying and suffocating like the smoke that darkens the room outside his safe haven. 

She’s gonna come back. She has to come back; he knows she would never leave him alone. She’s going to go and get Vergil and they’re all going to leave this place and—

Dante hears his mother’s scream and in a moment of panic he calls out, his voice a desperate whisper echoing the name of the boy she’d been looking for and— 

His brother’s name is still on his lips when Dante’s demon bristles dark and warning beneath his skin, something finally stirring it to wakefulness. When his eyes snap open he sees the cause for what it is: the tattooed stranger with familiar eyes is standing over him, Dante’s own sword clutched in his hands and mere centimetres away from Dante’s throat. Time seems to slow around him as his heart kicks into gear, forcing blood through his veins as the seconds tick by. 

Will a beheading kill him? 

_One._

He’s not sure he wants to find out. 

_Two._

Was this V’s plan all along? To kill him? Hadn’t he needed Dante to defeat Urizen? 

_Three_

Their eyes meet for but a moment, and Dante swears he sees the corners of V’s lips kick up in a rueful smile as he lets the blade fall, the Devil Sword Sparda burying itself in the ground a hair’s breadth away from Dante’s face. Dante’s cheek burns as if from the tiniest of papercuts, resealing before it even has a chance to properly bleed; though his head remains firmly attached to the rest of his body, the wound still serves as a chilling reminder. It’s the closest call he’s had in a while, if he’s being honest, and he’s not sure he’s okay with how V nearly got the jump on him before his demon took offense. 

Naturally, of course, he lets the attempt on his life slide in favour of deflecting attention away from his unease, groaning as he sits up and rubs his face. 

"For a second there, I thought you were gonna shish kabob me." 

The failed attempt on his life — or whatever the hell that was — seems to have taken a lot out of V, the man having collapsed into a pile beside him the moment Dante properly awoke from his slumber. Despite the way he struggles to catch his breath, though, he still manages a quip of his own. 

"I know how stubborn you can be. I thought it might be the only way to wake you." 

He sounds as lighthearted as Dante does, and the knowing smile V shoots him is like this whole thing is some kind of shared joke between the two of them. Dante can’t tell if it’s a genuine statement or V’s attempt to offer him some kind of backhanded compliment. Either way, the silence that follows is broken only by the sounds of V’s ragged breathing and tainted by a kind of lingering unpleasantness that seeps into the soul like poison. For all that the two of them may sit close together, looking the part of casual allies, there is still a yawning chasm of emotional distance between them that feels more uncrossable with each new breath. To make matters worse, this is the first time they’ve been alone together since their first meeting at Dante’s office, and the first time he’s seen V since he’d been fighting Urizen. Dante gets the feeling that a lot has changed, not just between them, and it makes his skin crawl. 

He tries not to think about it as he gets to his feet, stretching as the feeling starts to return to his body. Given how long he’s been asleep for — V, at least, doesn’t seem to mind being forthcoming now, readily giving him the information he wants — Dante thinks he should feel like literal garbage. Instead, as he hears his joint pop satisfyingly and works the crick out of his spine, he feels oddly invigorated, like he’s just emerged from an incredibly hot bath, or has just slipped back into his human shape after a particularly powerful trigger. 

The sensation only intensifies when he rolls his shoulders and throws a few punches, body light and limbre in a way it hasn’t been in months. He knows he heals fast, knows he’s been out for a month, but this? This seems a little excessive. Dante almost wants to test out his trigger like this, when he’s so full up on electric energy, if only to see if his form has changed into something even bigger and better than before. It certainly feels like it, what with the way his devil seethes in his veins, hungry now that it’s awoken from its slumber. 

But while V seems content to let him posture and stretch and catalogue his new symptoms, the tattooed man’s companions are less inclined to leave him be. Griffon is the first to seek him out, and while Dante would like to tune out the bird’s annoying chatter, the mention of Nero has Dante on edge. He throws the bird harder than he means to — oops — but he’s certain that Griffon will survive his crash landing. Besides, he has more important things to focus on, like figuring out why V did not follow his explicit instructions to take Nero _away_ from Urizen. 

“Leave Nero out of this.”

The words come out more growly than he intends, voice resonating in his chest as he stalks towards the still-seated V. Though their heights are not so dissimilar when they’re standing, like this he unmistakably looms over V, taking advantage of both his position and the substantial size of his frame. Beneath his skin, his demon is restless and angry that a mere human would _dare_ interfere with his business, especially against such a personal foe. To make matters worse, his human side is equally aggravated that V has involved Nero in all of this when Dante has done everything in his power to keep him away, had risked life and limb to buy the pair of them extra time to get to safety. It’s bad enough that Nero lost his arm before all of this bullshit went down, but if Nero were to learn that the demon he faced was — 

V doesn’t tolerate the posturing for long. He stands up on wobbly legs, but Dante can’t help but notice how heavily he’s still breathing, like simply existing is taking more out of him than it had before. He’s clearly struggling despite trying to pretend like he’s not, and Dante doesn’t need his demonic senses to know that V is even weaker than he was one month prior when he’d sauntered into Dante’s office like he owned the place. Why has his condition deteriorated so much in such a short period of time? Had escaping from Urizen cost him and Nero more than he let on? Was the Qliphoth an even bigger problem now? 

All thoughts even remotely resembling concern disappear immediately at V’s reply, however.

“If you could defeat Urizen...then I never would have dreamed of using that child." 

The look he shoots Dante is so _disappointed_ that it nearly makes Dante see red. For the briefest of moments molten power crackles across his skin like a crimson lightning, but he resists, wrestles his demon back into its human skin as V turns his back on him. The sheer arrogance of the move is enough to make Dante seethe, but though his demon roars for recompense, reacting to V would only play into his expectations. With people like this, blowing them off is the best way to get under their skin. Dante knows; he’s had a lot of practice dealing with jerks in his life. 

Besides, Urizen is still out there, sitting atop his creepy throne in the dump he calls a palace. Dante doesn’t have time to deal with scrawny punks who spout too much poetry. 

“Alright, enough’s enough. Can’t let a boy, do a man’s job.” 

Dante turns to reach for the Devil Sword Sparda, only to find the way forward is suddenly blocked. Something hard and metallic hooks into the meat of his shoulder, a heavy bar pressing against his chest, stopping his movement if only out of sheer novelty. Dante feels his jaw clench so tightly he swears he can hear his teeth creaking as he follows what turns out to be the line of V’s cane back down to its wielder. He knows how he looks when he feels like this, when dark desires stir hotly in his blood and darker thoughts swirl dangerously in his head. He knows, too, that the look he fixes V is nothing short of murderous, because V is interfering _yet again_ in Dante’s business with his family. 

Yet V does not so much as step back, instead putting even firmer pressure on Dante’s chest as though this measly chunk of steel is going to stop Dante from going anywhere. 

Dante opens his mouth to make some sort of snide comment, but V beats him to the punch. 

“You are ill-equipped to fight him as you are, and you cannot afford another mistake. Calm down and centre yourself. Somehow, I do not think Urizen will toss your body down here to recuperate a second time.” 

The wan smile he gives Dante is still somehow dripping with condescension, and Dante’s demon snarls in fury from the depths of his soul. How dare V stand between Dante and Nero — or worse, between Dante and Urizen? What gives him the right to criticize the battle that Dante fought on his own two feet when V can barely stand before him? And what makes him so sure that Dante cannot wipe the floor with Urizen now? 

V pulls on the cane like he intends to force Dante to yield, and that proves to be more than his demon is willing to tolerate. He moves before he even consciously decides to do so, otherworldly root cracking beneath his clenched fist as he slams one hand into the Qliphoth and only just resists putting the other through V’s chest as he shoves him up against the demonic tree. Dante still hears V’s breath rush out of him in a satisfying whoosh despite pulling his punches, and he revels in the way V’s next inhale rattles in his chest, leaning closer to savour the thrill of his victory. His trigger settles over his body like a second skin, steam hissing through his clenched teeth as his eyes burn into V. Like this he really does tower over V, infinitely superior in both size and strength and sporting enough natural weaponry to rip V apart with his bare hands. 

(He could. He _should_, but he won’t, because he’s better than that. Also V seems to think that he’s too out of control to face Urizen, and Dante feels like putting a hole through V’s sternum at the barest provocation would only prove his point.)

Still, Dante bares his teeth in a threatening snarl as he curls his fingers across the black leather of V’s open jacket, watching as tiny lines of blood appear wherever his claws meet tattooed skin. Even at his gentlest he is still more than V can handle, no matter what the fragile man thinks, and for once Dante wants him to stop his pontificating and cryptic bullshit and remember who he’s dealing with. Dante isn’t just some run-of-the-mill demon hunter. He’s fought every high ranked demon stupid enough to cross into the human world, defeated and sealed a devil king on his home turf, took down a giant statue and an evil cult hell-bent on purging the world of demons and—

It’s not until something cool and metallic slides against the half-open plates of his groin that he realizes V has moved as well, and the thing he can feel pressing unwaveringly against the faint heat of his groin, in fact, the handle of V’s cane. While it could just as easily be a threat as much as it could be an enticement — V seems equally full of both — the way V’s eyes are trained to the slowly swelling bulge of his erection makes Dante inclined to believe it is the latter. It sparks something hot in the pit of his stomach, and he hadn’t realized that the simmer in his blood was just as much a desire to fight as it was to fuck. Then again, such things have always been difficult to tease apart wherever his demon is involved. The urges to destroy, to dominate, to _devour_ are so tightly intertwined that Dante supposes it was only inevitable that V would push them firmly into the territory of lust, especially after their previous encounter. His demon remembers the last time it had been allowed to swallow up a little bit of V, and Dante finds himself suddenly hungry for a bigger taste. 

A soft noise makes him tear his eyes away from the slide of his quickly filling cock against V’s weapon, and his movement seems to spur V to do the same. V does not break eye contact when their eyes meet, and though Dante can feel how hard he’s breathing with his hand resting against his bony chest, there is nothing there but unwavering conviction and banked heat. Even as he trembles, pinned to the Qliphoth by a demon powerful enough to seal away a god, V still tries to goad him, every slow blink and quirk of his lips a silent dare that Dante very much wants to pay back in full. 

But this is a game with two players, and V isn’t one to sit idly by while Dante sizes him up like he’s fresh meat. No, he drags the handle down and then back up again, slick already with the natural emissions of Dante’s demonic cock, and Dante cannot resist the way he shudders with it, form flickering as his humanity briefly surfaces. The slide of V’s cane first against his bare and then against clothed cock is incandescent, tightening the growing knot of pleasure in his loins as his shape refuses to stabilize. Dante hasn’t felt this out of control of his trigger since the first few months after Vergil ripped it out of him, when there was no immediate threat and equal power to his own to challenge him. It should make him cautious, and a part of him whispers that he is walking a very dangerous line getting this close to V when he is so obviously compromised. He should stop before they go too far, before he does some serious damage to V—

And yet, the feeling of being handled with such self-assuredness is one that Dante has not had in a long, long time. Try though he may to forget the single night he shared with V in the office, his body apparently is not so quick to abandon the memory. Even the thought of it now is enough to make him shiver, hunger seemingly magnified by his devil’s shape. Though he tries to keep the movement as small as possible, there’s nothing subtle about the way his unsheathed cock hangs heavy and eager to be touched. 

"I told you this would be enough, didn’t I?” 

V’s voice is quiet, pitched low enough that it feels like he’s speaking purposefully into the range of Dante’s supernatural hearing. It’s been more than a month since he’d had anyone speak to him like that, rough and dark and full of illicit promise, and Dante cannot help the way his cock pulses between his legs. Perhaps he should be more unhappy about how quickly his dick reacts to V’s voice, how easy it is for V to play this body of his like a stringed instrument, but somehow, just as before, he can’t bring himself to care. He wants this, whatever this will be — wants to place himself in V’s hands again just to _feel_ all over again, even if he refuses to ask for it. So Dante arches into the press of metal and lets his body do the talking. 

And while Dante thinks this is invitation enough, V still doesn’t touch him beyond the handle of his cane. As Dante watches him with growing frustration, his lips quirk upwards in a telling smirk, gaze challenging, and he asks, “Do you want to test that theory now?"

_Yes_ a part of Dante whispers, even as indignation flares magma-hot in his core. A louder part of him, though, is less willing to accept such a meagre offering when he has V right here in front of him, at the mercy of his whims. He hums a soft negative, even as he cannot quite stop himself from rolling his hips into the pressure of the cane. 

“Not a big fan of the stick. Offer me something better.” 

The overlay of his voice, human and demon, sounds rough and dangerous to his own ears, only serving to stoke the fires of his burning arousal. It clearly does something for V, too, and Dante watches with a surge of heat as V’s eyes go dark, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

“Better?” V repeats, a little breathless in his incredulity despite the way he raises his eyebrows, thinly veiled amusement curling at his smile, and Dante is nearly overcome by the urge to kiss the smugness from his mouth. That look is just so much like— he tamps down on that thought before it comes to fruition, instead arching closer to V so that he’s grinding against more than just the cane. It’s difficult to tell if V’s as hard as he is; the heat of his triggered cock skews his perception of what he’s pressed against, but he’d like to think V is just as into this. He hasn’t broken eye contact yet, expression slipping into something thoughtful. 

Dante tries not to push, as eager as he is impatient to see what V will offer him, despite knowing that their time is short and their options are equally limited. Still, he’s been hungry for the opportunity to touch more of V, especially given the way he’d reacted when Dante had taken V into his mouth and let him fuck his face, his expression pinched in a kind of torturous pleasure. The memory of that alone is enough to make Dante heart rate spike. Idly, he wonders if V is more comfortable with being touched now, if despite his weakness he will allow Dante to have a little more of him to enjoy. 

(_More_. He always wants more.) 

Vaguely Dante’s aware of the sound of something metal clattering to the floor, but he’s far too occupied by the feeling of a definitely human thumb caressing the head of his cock to care about such trivial noises. He bucks up into the touch almost immediately, feeling his wings flare and shudder at the unexpected pleasure that arcs through his veins. His breath leaves him in an exhale made of steam, sizzling from the heat of his mouth, and he feels his lips curling into a cocky grin to match the lop-sided one that V is giving him, like he still finds great amusement in how easily he can provoke such a reaction from Dante. 

“And what would you have me offer? My hands? My mouth? Is that what will satisfy you?”

The sudden image of V on his knees for Dante, Dante’s hands in his hair while his lips are stretched around the heft of Dante’s cock is dizzying, and Dante has to close his eyes against it for a single, intense moment. He wants all of what V is offering — hands, mouth, even that damned cane — but he also wants _more_, wants to satisfy himself and V in a way that won’t hurt him in the process, because as much as he might enjoy taking V’s mouth, he’s not certain he has the self-control to do it gently. As he looks down at V, short of breath and suddenly so intensely hungry for everything he can have, he is struck with unexpected inspiration. Dante’s grin returns full force as he nods to V’s body. 

“I have a better idea.” 

He releases V long enough to turn him around, crowding him up against the Qliphoth root and reaching around the front of his body for his fly. Though his triggered hands are hardly the most dexterous, they certainly have enough mobility to do the trick, and without much effort he jerks V’s pants down over the swell of his ass. It takes a bit of rearranging of his jacket to truly complete the picture, but by the time Dante is finished he’s gifted with an image of bare, pale skin almost completely covered in intricate black lines, beautifully exposed for his viewing pleasure. Even just the sight of this much of V, naked for him and only him, makes a low noise of pleasure rumble in his throat, and Dante can’t resist reaching a hand around to stroke at the soft flesh of V’s belly. V jerks at the contact, and then Dante is rewarded by a sharp, startled inhale when he slides his hand lower still and wraps it loosely around V’s erection. It looks like somebody was enjoying their little negotiation just as much as Dante was. 

Grinning against the back of V’s neck with inhumanly sharp teeth, Dante presses closer still and lets V feel the full weight of his erection against his ass, ruts against him just to relieve a tiny bit of the pressure. It feels good, the press of skin against bare skin, and he doesn’t bother completely stifling his soft groan as something smug and pleased unfurls in his chest. Being under V’s hand had been good, subject to his whims and obeying his every command, knowing that the devastating satisfaction at the end would be worth every ounce of his frustration. But he thinks he likes this just as much, feeling the whole length of V against him, able to touch and be touched, free to take his own pleasure with V’s approval. 

As he gently rocks against V, he feels a hand reach up and grasp one of his pseudo-horns, a frail set of fingers curling around the nearest one that V can reach while the blunt nails of his other hand drag uselessly against scaled skin. Despite the fact that V’s not nearly strong enough to puncture the armour of his devil trigger form, the thought of what could be, if he were more powerful, makes Dante shiver, and his eyes are drawn to V’s when the tattooed man tips his head back so they can make eye contact. If Dante had thought the whisper of love scratches was titillating, he was wholly unprepared for just how incendiary V’s next words would be. 

“Like this? Crude, but effective. Have me then, if it will appease your hunger.” 

It makes him jerk forward unintentionally, cock sliding between V’s thighs, and he can hear V’s voice catch at the motion. Dante can’t resist the urge to do it again, feeling the ridges catch faintly on the underside of V’s cock, dragging against his balls as he draws back. The slick oozing from his cock is enough to give his slow, measured thrusts only the barest hint of friction, each one easier than the last as he already makes a mess between V’s thighs. There’s nothing pretty or clean about demonic sex; Dante’s dick is designed for a quick courtship followed by an extended period of relentless and demanding fucking. If V were a demon, or even half as demonic as Dante, they could go at it for hours, the slick from his cock ensuring that there was nothing but unadulterated carnal bliss as they rutted until they were temporarily satisfied. Here, though, it will serve as a precursor to an even bigger mess, when Dante comes between V’s thighs and marks him with more than just his scent. 

The mental image alone makes Dante shudder all over, his hands gripping more tightly at V’s waist before he remembers himself and eases off, panting as he tries to wrestle more control from his hungry devil. He needs to be _calmer_, lest he ruin V completely in his pursuit of his own pleasure and—

V’s thighs suddenly tense around Dante as his expression turns faintly sour, his grip tightening around the parts of Dante his hands can get ahold of. He can’t make Dante do anything, but he’s arching again to try and catch Dante’s eye, a position that’s clearly difficult for him to hold. Whatever he wants to say is important enough to warrant his efforts, and Dante obligingly stills, waiting. V’s expression becomes a full-on scowl as he says, 

“Satisfy your beast, Dante. Or I will satisfy myself at your expense.” 

Dante doesn't need to be told twice. With a fierce grip on V’s hips, he starts moving again, arcs of scarlet energy sparking and skittering along his form as his devil writhes beneath his skin. His wings snap open, wide and full, and he presses himself tight against the taut line of V’s back, the cracks in his molten chest piece alight with immense demonic power. He feels free in a way he hasn’t in a long time, even with a part of him reigning in his strength so as not to break the man beneath him. He takes and he takes and he—

But V accepts it all, lets him drive his dick between his thighs like Dante really is fucking him, like he won’t ache later from how rough Dante’s hips piston against his ass, like his fragile body can handle whatever it is that Dante wishes to do to it. Dante can hear him struggling to catch his breath, winded in a way that would make Dante worry if it was anyone else, but the lack of air seems to be doing little to slow him down. He still clenches his thighs whenever he can manage it, holds Dante like a lifeline and rakes his nails across demonic skin like he can actually leave marks. When Dante balances him perfectly between his body and the Qliphoth tree, surrounded and held while Dante fucks him, V rewards him with a hand on his cock, letting Dante’s thrusts guide it through the tunnel of his fist every time Dante slides past the hot clutch of V’s thighs. 

It’s good, so very good, and beneath the salacious sounds of every filthy thrust, punctuated by Dante’s quiet moans and V’s uneven breathing, Dante swears he can hear his name leave V’s lips, breathless and demanding in equal parts. A name of his own flutters like a butterfly caught on the back of his tongue, but Dante does not give it voice. Instead, he licks at the sweat beading on V’s neck, and loses himself in bliss. 

Dante’s orgasm sneaks up on him, hits him like a sucker punch to the gut as he presses himself again and again against V’s ass, feeling the first waves ripple through his core. White-hot pleasure so scalding it almost blinds him in with its intensity sears through his whole body with each muted jerk of his hips, and he clutches V tighter, wraps one hand around his torso as though V can even move away from him at this point. This close, the pale line of V’s neck is unbearably appetizing, and Dante bites, harder than he means to, warm blood filling his mouth as he coats the insides of V’s thighs and the Qliphoth root before them with thick, heated pulses of his come. He hasn’t had an orgasm like this in… well, since V took him apart with a few fingers on his own couch, and the thought makes him groan low in his throat as he sags against V, wings drooping. 

In his post-orgasmic haze, a soft sound catches his attention: a barely audible but wavering inhale that does not imply anything other than pain. It pings Dante’s radar, but not enough to stir him into action, body still luxuriating in the little flashes of pleasure that skitter along his nerves every time his cock slips a little against V’s skin. Pain, after all, is only temporary. Ever since Vergil had so lovingly jammed the Rebellion through his guts, Dante’s perception of pain has become even more skewed than it had been as a child. He has his own personal theories as to why, most of them ultimately concluding that demons don’t understand or even feel pain the same way that humans do, like the emotional component has vanished and only limited nociception remains. Coupled with the supernatural healing factor, where anything short of a grievous injury is merely an inconvenience, it stands to reason that the demonic body doesn’t need to be held back from aggravating its wounds the same way a human would be. 

Regardless, _V_ has none of Dante’s demonic protections against pain and discomfort, and his frail body does not appear well-suited for any kind of harm. As his senses return to him, Dante becomes slowly aware of how badly V shakes in his grasp, feels the burn of magic against his tongue as V’s familiars try and staunch the bleeding even with his teeth still half-buried in flesh, smells arousal and sweat and the sour scent of pain. V hasn’t pulled away yet, but whether that’s because he doesn’t want to make the wound worse or because he simply can’t isn’t immediately clear. 

Another noise leaves V’s lips, this one sharp and high, and this time Dante releases his grip on V’s shoulders almost instantly, watching with a mixture of concern and a dash of guilt as V sags against the root, looking as though even a gentle breeze could knock him over. Though perhaps Dante had entertained a few daydreams about V on his knees before him, it had always been his own choice — a gift freely given, so to speak, as Dante had done for V. Compared to that, seeing V like this does nothing but make an unpleasant feeling gnaw at his insides. 

Then again, Dante has rarely ever gotten a thrill out of watching anything suffer. 

He turns the tattooed man around in his grasp, letting him rest heavily against the Qliphoth root as Dante surveys the damage. The bleeding has slowed to a sluggish pace, aided by V’s own brand of slightly expedited healing, but it’s still deep enough to leave a lasting mark. V’s erection, at least, hasn’t flagged much, arching upwards towards his abdomen, flushed and heavy with blood. Dante is tempted to take it in his mouth again, to feel the heady weight of it on his tongue and to watch as V falls apart from the play of his tongue. Somehow, though, he doesn’t think that V will have the stamina for another round — not when, at the height of his strength, he had barely been able to finger Dante into a second climax the last time they’d done this. Chances are, whatever climax he can wring out of V will be the last of his strength. 

Best to make this one count for both of them then.

He steps in so they’re touching once more, wrapping his wings around the pair of them so they’re supporting V more completely than the Qliphoth roots at his back. Like this, close enough that he can practically see the individual flecks of colour in V’s eyes, it’s all-too-easy to rut his still-hard cock against V’s, letting it drag slowly against equally heated flesh. He finds himself drawn back to the bite mark, healing as it is, and leans in to lap gently at it, chasing away the last remnants of the blood there. It’s sharp and bitter on his tongue; somehow, he’s not surprised, given the nature of its owner. 

“Stop coddling me. I can stand on my own.” V snaps when he has his breath back, and the bite to his voice almost makes Dante laugh given how at odds it is with the way he trembles in Dante’s arms. It figures that, despite the brittleness of his form, he would hate being perceived as weak so much so that he would force himself to stand up again even when his body was at its limits. 

It reminds Dante of someone else he once knew. 

There are several things he could say, several more teasing comments he could make, but he’s not looking to further aggravate V. He leaves the bite mark alone and instead leans back enough to give V one of his best smiles, the kind that all the ladies love even if they don’t know it yet. 

“_The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. You never know what is enough until you know what is more than enough,_” Dante quotes, both mimicking and overexaggerating V’s delivery style as he spouts the poetry with a flourish. Blake has never been a favourite of his but, he knows his way around a few stanzas, and even if he messes this one up a little bit he’s certain it’ll change the trajectory of V’s mood. 

Sure enough, something strange flits across V’s expression at the familiar words, like they were the last thing he had expected to hear from Dante’s lips. But before Dante can gloat for too long, he finds himself transfixed by the way V catches the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth, by the way his eyes dart sideways and the muscles of his jaw clench tight as if to stop them from trembling. There is something that, if Dante didn’t know better, he might think was regret lingering in the corners of V’s downturned lips, a kind of deep sadness that spoke of an unfathomable loss lurking at the edges of his expression. He is reminded, suddenly, of the way V had asked him to stay, and the way his voice had trembled when he read to him that day on the couch. 

But Dante’s not ready to confront that yet, is not prepared for the way his throat closes around any further words he could use to make light of the situation. So Dante does what he does best: he redirects, and moves them both away from this dangerous territory where they both should know better than to tread. 

With a roll of his hips he has both of their attentions back on the press of their erections, a messy slide that startles a gasp out of V and forces an answering moan past the blockage in Dante’s throat. Even after fucking his thighs, the silken heat of V’s cock against his own feels good, and he starts a slow and easy grind that makes V shudder against him. Dante watches until V no longer looks so troubled, until his brow furrows and his eyes struggle to stay open against the influx of arousal, and then Dante buries his face in the crook of V’s neck. There, as he inhales deeply in an effort to steady himself, he breathes in a smell so faint he would almost swear the creature he held was nothing more than a ghost. But even so, a scent still lingers beneath the bitter tang of dark magic, a scent so familiar yet somehow completely new that Dante can’t help but press it to the roof of his mouth and breathe. 

(He pretends he doesn’t recognize it but he knows, he _knows_, and his heart seizes with an ache so sharp it leaves him momentarily breathless.) 

He feels V’s fingers curl into his hair, half-way between cradling his head and gripping the strands for purchase, and realizes he must have dropped his trigger, at least partially. It does nothing to stem the tide of his arousal, and Dante barely pauses long enough to free his cock from his jeans before he’s grinding against V once more. Their cocks fit perfectly in his loose fist and Dante doesn’t even mind that he’s doing all the work, not when V moans softly and encourages him with little jerks of his hips, tiring quickly but willing just the same. Dante licks the place he’s bitten, the sharp edge of V’s collar bone, V’s throat when it’s tentatively offered to him, and that one makes Dante groan, because surely V knows what he’s doing behaving like this. V shakes with the gesture but he does not pull away, lets Dante mouth at his throat while they rut against each other, and in the darkness and safety of Dante’s cocoon of wings, Dante’s name on V’s lips is sweet with an emotion he doesn’t want to acknowledge. So he focuses on the slow-building tightness in his gut, on the taste of V’s pleasure on his skin, on the sound of his ragged breathing, until he knows nothing but heat and friction and the crescendo of his own pleasure. 

Dante is almost entirely human again when he comes back to himself, his arms still wrapped tightly around V, V’s fingers still buried in his hair. Only his wings remain, shielding the pair of them from prying eyes, though no demons have shown up to interrupt them. Tucked away like this, almost in their own little world, it’s easy for Dante to give in to his own weakness, to cradle V’s face in his hands like his wings cradle V’s body. When V tilts his head ever so slightly into the heat of Dante’s palm and lets Dante stroke his thumb over a bony cheek without protest, Dante takes the acceptance of his gentleness for what it is. He presses their foreheads together as they catch their breath, and doesn’t think about how nice it feels to be this close to another person, doesn’t think about how much he likes the way V’s fingers carefully card their way through his hair in reply to his own caress.

Doesn’t think about how, right now, Dante would kiss him if V was someone else. 

They stay like this for a long time, until Dante’s wings finally dematerialize and he feels V lean away from him and back against the Qliphoth root. Dante takes this as his cue to step away, making an effort to clean himself up a little bit despite how pointless the task is. He’ll have to make sure he gets splattered with some extra demon blood to cover this up. Dante’s not sure he wants to show up to Urizen’s funeral smelling like he just had some really good sex. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches V hike his pants back up and then slowly lower himself onto the ground, knees almost buckling in the process. He looks tired, and a little pale, but otherwise still in one piece. It’s reassuring, especially now that Dante is no longer quite so ruled by the demands of his demon. He can’t bring himself to feel completely guilty though; not when V had egged him on so thoroughly despite knowing the risks. Besides, there’s something a little satisfying about seeing the physical marks of their encounter that he’s left on V, much like the far less visible ones V left on him after their first time. 

As Dante finally abandons the task of tidying himself up, he finds V watching him through half-lidded eyes, the tattooed man fixing him with a tired but knowing smile. 

“I presume you feel better? You’re welcome, by the way.” 

V absently runs his fingers through his bangs and flips them backwards, tipping his head so it rests against the root behind him and watching Dante with a vaguely smug expression. The movement makes something achy twist in Dante’s chest and he forces himself to smother the feeling before it ruins his calm. He — and V — worked very hard to ensure that he was in control enough to face Urizen once more. It'd be foolish to lurk here until the effects wear off. 

(Or, for that matter, until he does something that'll undo everything.) 

With a grunt he hefts the Devil Sword Sparda onto his shoulders, the weight of it almost feeling heavier than he remembers. For a moment he hesitates, not sure if he should leave V here alone after he has so thoroughly drained him of much of his remaining strength. While he is not truly alone — Dante had only seen Griffon fly off, but there are two more familiars who call V their master — he can’t even stand on his own two feet yet. Like this, V would be a sitting duck if something bigger than an Empusa decided to wander on by. 

But he also can’t abandon Nero, not when he knows all-too-intimately who he’s fighting. 

Dante takes one step away, and then pauses, indecision clawing at his insides even though he knows what he must do, knows he should hurry after Nero but wanting to stay with V at least until the other man is back on his feet. He knows he’s stalling, but his feet still feel like lead in his boots. Is this concern for V that’s making him delay the inevitable? Or does he just not want to face the monstrous creature that claims to have his brother’s name? Nero needs his help, but why is it so hard for him to walk away? Damnit, he thought he was past all of this dithering! 

In the end, V makes the decision for him, waving a hand lazily in a shooing motion. 

“Go,” he says, his tone soft and almost gentle despite the dismissiveness of his gesture. “You know what awaits you. Don’t worry. I won’t be far.” 

Dante feels a frown tugging at the corners of his lips when V’s tone turns mocking again, light-hearted in a way so obviously fake it sets his teeth on edge. The prickle of irritation is, at least, a feeling he knows well, and he lets it simmer beneath his skin as he plasters a smile on his face. 

“Sure. You do what you have to do.” 

He gives V a mock salute and turns away, heading deeper into the Qliphoth and away from the place where he’d just spent the last month sleeping while Nero and V had been dealing with a problem that should have been his to deal with. 

(Vergil is _his_ to deal with, because who else is going to be able to take his brother at full strength and wipe that—)

The memory of V’s lips quirked upwards in a smirk flashes before his eyes and Dante has to give himself a shake, free hand clenching itself into a fist as he marches on, moving faster than caution warrants. He’s let himself get attached to a ghost, a lingering shade of feelings and regrets that seems to want to help him as much as it wants to hinder him. It had been a mistake to let V touch him the first time, to find some measure of solace in a man who had just enough of his brother’s likeness to nearly fit into the missing pieces of Dante’s fractured soul, and this second time has only compounded the problem. He doesn’t have time for these kinds of distractions, especially not when they will bring him no peace. Even Dante knows that the tattooed man will not survive this, that V will disappear once Dante kills Vergil. 

Swallowing down the bitter, cloying feeling that threatens to lodge itself in his throat, Dante takes off at a run towards the throne room, and doesn’t look back.

**Author's Note:**

> Special shout-out to Chao and Quix who help me run with my wild ideas. <3
> 
> To all my fellow Spardacest server degenerates, who inspire and support me writing all kinds of ridiculous PWP: bless you and keep creating what you want to see! <3


End file.
